Belated
by My Vantilene
Summary: "You don't like people to assume things, do you?" I froze. "But you're okay with that. It's better than the alternative."
1. Chapter 1

Some people can't understand how lucky I am.

I've had so much good fortune in my life, sometimes it boggles my mind. It boggles other people's minds, too, but it boggles them for a completely different reason. They are boggled because I "think" I'm fortunate. They just don't get it. No one can see past a five-year-old sweater and a skirt that has maybe had a little too much wear-and-tear, or the holes in my shoes. No one ever listens to what I have to say. Two, maybe three, sentences in they think they have the entire story. I've been on the streets since birth, I've spent my life moving from town to town wherever the wind (pitying bus drivers) take me, I've had to steal and cheat and lie, oh don't get anywhere near me, I'm probably diseased. Just pity me from a safe distance, send money to charity from the comfort of your porcelain houses, that's more than enough.

No, actually, it is. Though I often find most people donate for selfish reasons, it is more than most people are capable of. And maybe the reasons don't matter as much when I just want a nice, hot meal. Okay, so it's not that hot. I'm lucky to have any food at all.

But then there are those people who can't afford to fuel a far off cause. Instead, they choose to see it up close, and mold it with their own two hands. Though I'm often so thankful to have the food that washes up on the seedy shores of each soup kitchen I pass through, I never forget who's behind the scenes, making everything possible for me. I'm lucky to have such wonderful people on my side.

Some of them stand out to me. It could be a server who fills my bowl with an extra scoop and shakes my hand, unafraid. (Her name was Martha and when she took her hand away, there was a ten dollar bill in my palm.) It could be when a lackluster server brings me my dish and there are fluffy pancakes decorated with syrup hearts. (I asked around and the cook's name was Josh. Normally, it wasn't a thing they did, but apparently "when Josh gets in the kitchen, there's no stopping him.") It could be when a lackluster server brings me a lackluster dish and I notice that the plate itself is shining it's so clean and I thank God for such a devoted volunteer, even if their job seemingly isn't that important. Things like that just warm my heart.

But then I got to the west coast. I started on this long, long journey in the east coast. It was the biggest — maybe even the only — milestone of my entire life. I'm talking miles and miles and miles milestone. That's how far I've walked, trudged, hitchhiked, ran, and train-hopped for eleven solid years.

And when I'm there, I think I'll celebrate with a nice dinner at the locale soup kitchen.

I'm a bit disappointed by the chipped-paint-and-sagging-wood looks of it, but I know better than anyone the in doesn't always match the out.

When a server brings me my dish, I know it's a birthday gift, plain and simple. I always get birthday gifts around March, though I couldn't tell you the exact date. I know it's my birthday when a whole pack of deer follow me side by side while I'm walking through the woods. I know it's my birthday when a bus driver says I can be taken over 90 miles in a favorable direction. I know it's my birthday when it's sunset and raining lightly, because that's my favorite thing in the whole world. The sun makes tiny rainbows in every drop of rain, and the sunset drips onto pavement because of the damp mirror those delicate drops make. And it's really rare, so I know it's a gift. I know it's my birthday on a day like today. My stomach's anxious growling sounds like an angel's voice, the ratty, plastic chair feels like satin, and the swinging, naked light bulb feels like a warm ray of golden sun against my skin.

The server is just the sweetest thing. He gives a little jovial bow and mutters something like, "Your majesty," before setting the dish before me and pantomimes taking off a silver covering. He could be joking, or making fun of me, but at least he's making fun and that just brings a light to my eyes.

I give a bit of a gasp at the actual dish itself.

It's pizza. Gourmet pizza with golden, flakey, cheese-filled crust and shredded green herbs I don't even know the name of and it's baked with a variety of cheeses, those of which I also don't know the names of. It's like the kind you see on billboards advertising a sophisticated dining experience at your local… Okay, so I don't know the name of any fancy shmancy restaurants. But I know a piece of art when I see one, and this belongs in an art gallery next to… Okay, so I also don't know any famous paintings. Fill in the blank, will ya.

And then the plate is immaculately clean. The pizza is mirrored on its surface like liquefied trees reflecting against a lake. Or like when it lightly rains at sunset and the puddles reflect the oranges and pinks and yellows of the sky. It's like countless birthday presents before, except not only is it beautiful, but I get to eat it. That is, if I ever stop ogling at it.

And then I remember the cook and the dishwasher and the server and my heart is smoldering from the heat of their love, inadvertent though it may be. I feel like weeping and laughing at the same time. Maybe this is some blissful sort of hysteria.

The server is still there, as I smile brightly and release an inaudible giggle through my teeth, but I don't know it until he coughs.

When I look up at him, he freezes a bit. Alright, yeah, I know my eyes must be as big and clear as the perfectly cleansed dish, and that might be strange to him, and I might have dirt caked on every inch of my body. So his reaction is understandable.

Mine is not.

"So, um, where are you from?" he asks, trying to make conversation. I can see it in his fiery emerald eyes that he does really care, and does really want to know, and is still waiting for a good response from me.

I just stare at him blankly. I'm too busy thinking about how lucky I am.

"Can I at least get a name?"

I can't form a coherent reply.

Not because I'm still dumbstruck or because he's the first person to ever ask for my name, though both of those are mildly true, but because I'm not sure what to tell him.

When I was growing up, I was called Girl. Hey, Girl, can you pick that up for me? Girl, what did I say about the neighbors? Girl, I need some time alone. You mind waiting out back, Girl? What did you do when I was gone, Girl? I had nicknames besides Girl. I wish I could say they were used affectionately. But it's better than being called Poor Girl, which is what people tend to call me when they find me in their backyard trying to take a sprinkler-shower. Actually, it's more an official title with "The" at the beginning. Like the president, or the Terminator. The Poor Girl. I found her sleeping next to Sparky on the porch, The Poor Girl, she probably has nowhere else to go. No one really tries to get my consent on these things. Just change my name without my okay, you know what, that's fine. You can call me The Poor Girl, or just Girl for short, but one day, I'm going to be known as The Lucky Girl. Because someone will finally hear what I have to say, and they'll understand why I'm so lucky. They'll finally get it.

"I…" It leaves my mouth without my consent, too. He was walking away hesitantly when I finally said it, and I guess it was because something inside my brain went off, telling me if I didn't reply, I could miss my chance to thank the workers here.

"So you can talk! I knew there was some chatter in there. Do I finally get a name?"

Everything I thought I was going to say just disappeared. I looked down.

"Uh…right, not a talker, are you?" he gives a sly smile, "Challenge accepted."

He pulls up a chair and sits next to me. I guess he's not too worried about other charity cases, considering there are no others to serve in the hollow soup kitchen.

"You seem a bit young to need a soup kitchen. I'm guessing the parents kicked you out, you rebelled too far or maybe you even… Alright, the reason's none of my business, I suppose. You're not talking that much, so I'm guessing whatever happened to land you on the streets was pretty traumatic."

He hesitates a moment because of the soft, downward curve of my lips.

"Am I right?"

No one ever makes assumptions to my face, and they certainly never ask if they're right, so, yes, I am a bit surprised. I can at least shake my head, though, since my shock is just about used up by this point.

"I..." he manages, raking his fingers through his red locks.

I soundlessly giggle.

He looks at me again, one straight eyebrow and one slanted, a slow smirk manifesting.

"I got a smile, I think. But this really isn't my territory. Why don't you get started on that and I'll go get the expert." With that, he was off, and I was left with an edible masterpiece all to myself.

It was the most I've ever eaten in one sitting, and it tasted as good as it looked and smelled — maybe even better. Of course, there was a lot of grease, but somehow it seemed…_refined._ Like how some people think fish eggs are refined. I, however, was not when "the expert" came.

He started out as a flicker. The entrance to the kitchen was really far from the table I was seated at, so I don't think he noticed me exactly. The server spoke with his hands vibrantly once he came out, and immediately his "expert" tried to walk back into the kitchen.

So maybe he did notice me.

But the redhead didn't seem so easy to deter, and guided him with two hands on his shoulders toward my direction. The expert yelled something I could only make out as garbled obscenities and tore off the alabaster apron, shoving it into the server's hands.

"Alright, well, I lied. This is my friend, Roxas, and he's no expert…" the "t" seemed to last forever, but then he added quickly, "…at talking to girls, now you two kids have fun!"

Roxas yelled something over his shoulder as the redhead ran back to the kitchen.

Then he studied me for a moment and I just froze. His eyes were harsh and analytical, and quite honestly, I was scared out of my mind. Oh, yeah, and that "refined" grease didn't look so refined dripping from my chin.

But then his eyes went soft and I physically relaxed, though it was indistinct when I tensed in the first place. He pulled the chair the server had sat in and put his hands on the table.

"So, what brings you here? We don't usually get many…um, patrons, I guess you could say."

I couldn't help myself from laughing.

Albeit, soundlessly.

"Um. Where did you come from?"

I shrugged.

"Wow, you really are a tough one."

I furrowed my brows.

"No, no, I didn't mean anything by it, I just — Axel told you I was no expert, didn't he?"

I nod slowly.

"Yeah, um, I'm not going to try and get you to talk if you don't want to, I… I'll just be going then…" he stood up and turned rapidly. My brain went into alert mode again.

"It's good."

"Huh?" he stopped.

"The pizza. It tastes like art."

Well, that certainly could've been worded better.

He laughed, sitting back down, "You think so?"

I nodded with a wide closed smile.

"I go to a culinary school a couple miles from here. Cooking at a soup kitchen helps my resume."

I don't buy that as his main reason. His eyes are wary, but they're caring, too.

"What?"

I shook my head.

"Oh, come on." His loose smile fell off his face and the judgment in his eyes was back, but this time, it seemed different. I'm not sure what was going through his head.

"You don't like people to assume things, do you?"

I froze.

"But you're okay with that. It's better than the alternative."

I stood up.

He did too.

"You never correct them, because then you'd have to tell them the truth."

I started toward the door.

He followed.

"You keep quiet because you don't want anyone to see what you see. Yes, you'd like to express your opinion, but you're wary because then what you have won't be yours anymore. The only thing you truly have is your fresh take on the world. And you're torn. You want people to know, but you don't want to share. You want someone to acknowledge your existence, to tell you that you're still real, but you don't want to get close enough to someone to get that recognition. You pretend to be ignorant, but you're more comfortable when people make their assumptions and are done with you. It's a big relief, except you can't really feel that relief because you've been telling yourself for so long that you don't want them to assume."

Once outside, I started to pick up the pace, but he grabbed my hand.

"Wait!"

For some reason, I did.

"I…"

That probably would've made me laugh a few minutes ago.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for that to — just, can we start over?"

I stared blankly up at him.

"Hi, my name is Roxas Strife," he stuck out his hand stiffly, "and you are…?"

"I'm nobody." I breathed before running as fast as I could away from the expert Roxas and into the inky night.


	2. Chapter 2

It was in no way the right place or time, but I decided to do some sight-seeing after the whole birthday gift fiasco.

The town is sleepy, but I guess that's understandable, considering the hour. I pick up pretty quickly it's a tourist hot spot from all the hotels and shops and restaurants. It truly is the east coast, though, because a large percentage of those restaurants are nautically themed, and the air has a fresh, sea-salt aftertaste. Spanish moss hangs from towering trees in every square, besides one. The buildings are ancient and some of them are clearly monuments to a couple of America's firsts, but the closer I assume I'm getting to the ocean (really, I'm basing this off of the growing sea salt taste and ocean breeze), the more and more buildings there are made of this eccentric material. It's like acid-washed jeans, only made of mortar, and riddled with seashells. The stars aren't so visible as the honey light of the lampposts outshine them, and casts unto the streets a warm complexion.

It's beautiful, and so much easier to fall asleep in such a peaceful place. Of course, I'm careful and pick the alley farthest from the soup kitchen. I have a bit of time to waste in my temporary home, so I go dumpster diving for spoils people accidentally throw out. There are a couple useful things, like disposable utensils and a warm, black sweatshirt, but it's mostly just wrappers and decomposing fruit. I also find a film-reliant camera that I stow away in my pack. Who knows, it might come in handy some day. Or the next time I get a rain and sunset combo, I can take a picture, and save it forever.

That warm, reassuring thought is the last thing I'm aware of as I put my new-found hood up and drift out to sleep.

* * *

There are sirens blaring, loud, loud sirens that make my ears ache and my stomach churn as they rip me from my first pleasant dream in who-knows-how-long. There are lights too, blue and red, red and blue, but when your vision is as bleary as mine, it blends to make a searing lavender. The world's trying to move as fast it can in molasses, and my movements are just as sluggish and uncoordinated as the rest of me. I see a blur of peach in the midst of all the mind-numbing colors, and something's thrust into my hand. The blur moves in strobe patterns, like a choppy stop motion film, and melts out of view. The sirens get louder and louder and they just don't stop screaming, and soon I'm screaming, and other voices join in too, but I'm not really sure what it means.

My ears can't take it anymore, and my body can't either; the strain is just too much. I collapse in on the big, warm sweatshirt and the sharp, glinting object in my hand, and finally there is sweet, sweet silence.

* * *

Roxas is thrown from the throes of a nightmare and into reality by the alarming screeches of a police vehicle. Oh, and, you know, the Doppler Effect probably has a hand in it too. He turns in his bed and pulls the indigo bed sheets closer to himself, breathing uneven and not very high up on his list of priorities. He tries as hard as he can to fall back into sleep. But counting sheep only fuels his frustration, recalling lullabies only makes the gaping hole in his heart ache, and thinking his way into unconsciousness only worsens his anxiety. Running out of reasonable options, he rolls off his bed and onto the floor, his nails still digging into the fabric, clinging to the blanket for dear life. He lays there a while, trying to process a nightmare he can't fully recall. Eventually, he figures coffee could turn this late night into an early morning, and trudges to the mini-kitchen, grabbing the instant coffee and doing his best to make an inspired brew. For a culinary student, this shouldn't be such an impossible feat, but he's also a philosophy/psychology student and those parts of him are outweighing the need to make good coffee with the need to psychoanalyze the bits and pieces of his own nightmare.

There was a man with silver hair in the dream. For whatever reason, the very idea of him brought Roxas' blood to boil like the water he was using for the brew. Punching his lights out was all he could think about as he drank his shabby coffee, as he brushed his teeth without having breakfast, as he took a shower with cold, harsh water, as he dressed in stiff, bleached clothing, as he sat on the couch, staring at the ceiling, seeing as he had nothing else to do.

Maybe he was still in shock, like he had been as he raced after the homeless girl, like he had been while driving back disappointedly, like he had been as he laid in his bed with lost, vacant eyes before sleep claimed him.

Roxas Strife was the worst psychology student in the history of education. When he told his mom (and technically his dad through unrequited letters) he was going into psychology, she slapped him on the back and enjoyed a good laugh. His teachers had a similar response, without the physical reprimand. His counselor had persuaded him to just choose cooking as his one and only major, and forget about it completely. His friends called him Doctor Strife sarcastically. Roxas might've been able to cook up a delicious, A-lister omelet with next to nothing, but when it came to people and their reasoning, he was as clueless as Dr. Watson trying to solve a murder without Holmes.

When his mom realized he was serious, she argued ravenously, did everything she could to dissuade him from that particular path. But that particular path was the path he had chosen, and there was nothing she could do to change his mind. He was clueless, and he was stubborn. She kicked him to the curb the night after graduation, and refused to fund his education beyond high school.

And yet, here Roxas was.

But that's not the point, the point is he's completely incompetent when it comes to reading people.

And yet, he was able to read the homeless girl in ways that just weren't possible without the use of telepathy. It was written in her eyes, so clear, so wide, so honest, so…blue. Such a soft, soft, soft blue. But so much was brimming inside those soft blue eyes, it was an ocean that overwhelmed his soul, made him feel like he was overflowing…and he liked it. He loved the thrill of it, the exhilaration the same way a good basketball player likes good competition, the same way a surfer loves big waves, and how a gymnast loves their own dexterity, that was the same way Roxas loved the girl. He hardly knew her, but at the same time, he knew everything about her. He wanted to be around her desperately, but wanted to banish her to the far corners of his mind just as desperately. She was great, but confusing and the confusion was just bigger than her own greatness.

The phone rang, ripping him from his stupor.

"Hello?"

* * *

It doesn't stay that quiet for long, I'm afraid. When I depart from unconsciousness again, my whole body is sore and bruised and whatever I'm resting on is harder than the cobblestone alley — if that's at all possible. Once I can finally unglue my eyes, I'm immediately awake, the cobwebs of sleep completely obliterated by this troubling development.

I woke up in a jail cell.

* * *

"Are you sure there's no one we can call for you?" the silver-haired guard asks, something reminiscent of…_concern_ in his electric eyes.

I shrug helplessly.

I can't remember any numbers from when I was five, but even if I could, I certainly wouldn't give them to this man. He seems nice enough, but I'm not a snitch. He could find her if I gave him any liable information.

From the moment I uncovered my…_predicament_, I became a different person.

My name is Xion, a dim-witted choice on my part considering I could've gone with something American. But he buys it nonetheless, maybe a do really look French. I've never had an accurate mental image of myself. I guess I have the wrong angle to really look at myself. My eyes were planted on my head so I could look at other people's eyes. Not my own. But I guess it's really hard not to know I have black hair because there's so much of it. It tangles really easily, but I don't care one way or another. Before last night, I always wore a super tight black knitted sweater, and a torn, faded blue skirt. Now I have the sweatshirt with the hood that's really warm, but it really wasn't worth getting into so much trouble.

But I'm getting off topic.

My name is Xion, I've lived in France all my life, but while my family was taking a trip to America, I got lost on a ghost tour in Savannah. By the time I found them again, they had been in a fatal car accident they, unfortunately, did not survive. My mom's family had not approved of their marriage, so no one from her side would take me. Everyone on my dad's side was judged unfit to be my caretaker. I was put into an orphanage where I didn't know the language, but I picked it up eventually. I ran away a couple months ago to try and find my own way.

Well, all he knows is my name is Xion, but at least I've got my back story all thought up. I have to think of a way to justify the knife that wound up in my hand, but other than that, I think I can get away scot-free while they try and find my social worker.

I'm not really keen on the way the government of this country works, but I hope they won't try and press matter where they aren't wanted. Or I hope there's no hole I left, or evidence that might lead them back to her.

She hasn't come looking for me so far, but if I get her in trouble…

Well, I certainly am lucky to be so unmemorable. Maybe she doesn't even remember me. Maybe after today, this Riku won't remember me either.

"Alright, I know you don't feel comfortable talking, so if I just point to a place on a map, will you tell me if you're from there or not?"

I nodded, despite his use of the word "tell."

He pointed to Savannah.

I shook my head.

Then Augustus.

Nope.

Georgia as a whole state?

No.

Florida?

Definitely not.

He circled the upper half of America.

No.

The lower half?

Better luck next time.

Europe?

I nodded.

England?

Nope.

France?

I nodded.

This might take awhile if he can't get me to talk.

* * *

"Her name was Xion."

"What? Axel, is this you? It's six o'clock, I don't have classes till three, why are you calling me this early?" he did his best to act as if the redhead's phone call had woke him up. Things were really tricky for Roxas at this delicate time of his life. Adding an overprotective and overbearing Axel into the situation was not going to help anyone.

"That girl? Her name was Xion. She's from France, apparently. It's all over the news. She got arrested because she ended up with the knife that killed Pennington's wife."

Arnold Pennington was the mayor of Savannah. That's why he had heard those sirens, last night! Something as big as the mayor's wife's murder surely warranted the entirety of the Savannah police force.

"Couldn't this wait till morning?"

"Did I stutter?"

"No, okay, I heard you, but I really was enjoying my night in unconsciousness."

"Well, what kind of friend would I be if I let you sleep in on such a momentous day?"

"Um, a decent one?"

"Okay, I had that one coming, but riddle me this; what kind of a person would you be if you left your big brother out in the cold?"

"Oh, so that's why you called, you need me to buzz you in. But, what are you doing here at 6:00? If you wanted to pull a practical joke, it'd me smarter to do it without me awake, don't you think?" Roxas smirks, because the last time Axel tried to prank him in his sleep, without someone to buzz him in, he was caught and arrested for trying to break in.

"Tch. Pfft. Ha. Thanks for the reminder, next time you're arrested, I'm going to let you sweat a few days in the slammer before I decide to come and bail you out."

"You know I didn't do it on purpose."

"Oh, yeah, you just kind of didn't answer your phone and basically dropped off the face of the Earth right when I needed you."

"I told you, I was busy."

"Well, are you going to buzz me in or not? She's getting cold."

"Yeah, yeah, just let me —" he pressed the button, "Wait what."

But it was too late, Axel had already hung up, and a few minutes later, he was barging into the two-room apartment with a familiar girl secured in his arms.

"You didn't."

"Hey, I don't make the rules, I just break them." He justified, setting the raven-haired girl down on the couch.

"What do you think you're doing?" Roxas practically screeched.

"Shh!" he whisper-shouted, "She's had a long night." He pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear.

"Why did you bring her here?"

"Listen, Roxas." He stood up, suddenly serious, "Keeping her at my place is too dangerous."

"And it's perfectly safe for her to be at my place?"

"Yes." He gripped the blonde by the shoulders, "I need you to do me just this one favor. It's just for a week or two, and then Vanitas will take her off your hands and you'll never have to see her again."

"Wait, you got him in on it?"

"Do you trust me?"

"What?"

"Do. You. Trust. Me?"

"Yeah, sure —"

"Then know that I have my reasons and don't ask any questions, okay?"

"I —"

"Alright, great, thanks, I'm late, love you lil' bro, bye." Axel spun the blonde around in a tight hug and launched himself out the door, making sure to slam it behind him.

Roxas drew in a deep breath.

Today was shaping up to be a long, long day.

* * *

_AN:_

_It's shorter than I wanted it to be, but it's pretty okay for something I wrote during my break at work. Anyway, I just wanted to get the word out about my writing-specific tumblr under the same penname. Just in case anyone wants to ask any questions or see what new Rokushi's I'm coming out with. I also link updates there, so you'll be the first to know when something new comes out.  
_

_Also,_ **Key****toOblivion**, _to answer you're question, Roxas is around 19 and Xion's around 17. _


	3. Chapter 3

When I wake up, I'm honestly not very surprised.

I knew there was something inside my gut when I first heard him talk, something like a compass inside of me, willing me towards him. That's why I ran away. I've always charted my own course, taken my own fate into my own capable hands. The idea that destiny is something preordained and set in stone, something I can't decide, scares me more than I'd like to admit. Though, much like Roxas, it also intrigues me more than I'd ever admit. To never know what's waiting on the other side and to not worry about it as well is something that causes you to live in the moment, truly. I've been cursed to dwell on the past and obsess about the future, but when I woke up, I was simply not myself. The world was a dream, and I its careless dreamer. And Roxas my co-dreamer who stood over me with his face closer than would be appropriate. Once he realized I was awake, however, he jumped back a couple feet in shock. He scrambled to pick up a book and opened it to a page. Unsatisfied, he flipped until he got to the one he was searching for then looked from the pages to me and back again.

"Bonjour. Je m'appelle Roxas Strife. Je suis dix-neuf. Um, Je suis de Savannah, Georgia. Et toi?"

"What…?" I inquired almost inaudibly.

"Sorry, I, uh, I mean Je," he pointed to himself, "suis…um. Really confused. You said… Tu es fraçaise?"

"Oui, Xion est de Marseilles. Elle est fraçaise."

"Was there a reason for that third person, or was — I'm sorry, Je suis —"

I giggled.

"It's okay, I speak English."

"But Axel said —"

"Let him and Riku think what they want, I can speak perfect English."

He raised an eyebrow at me.

"So you're not from France?"

"I could be. But not that I know of."

"You could've told me that before I went through this!" he held up the black book, which read French for Dummies. I laughed silently.

"Oh, that's funny, is it?" he glanced at his watch, "Look, I've gotta leave now if I want to be on time. When you get hungry, supposing you're not already," I crossed my arms with mild insecurity, "help yourself to anything in the fridge." With that he scooped up a messenger bag clearly meant to be worn over the shoulder and disappeared out the door.

Either he's more trusting than I originally anticipated, or an idiot. I could take anything I wanted from him and walk right out the door, I could be that kind of person; he didn't know me.

Except that he did. He'd demonstrated that eloquently the first time we met. It was inexplicable, unnatural, really, how far under the surface he could see. My surface is usually a mirror, reflecting and confirming everyone's individual view of me, a particularly popular take being That Poor Girl. No one's ever cared what was underneath that mirror, in fact most were oblivious to its existence, and certainly no one's ever tried or succeeded in breaking it.

Except that he _did_. He _did_ succeed. I wouldn't say it's completely broken, but it's breaking, I can feel little cracks becoming bigger cracks even now, little pieces of looking glass peeling and falling, and soon it will be gone. And I feel like I can breathe for the first time in who-knows how long, as if my whole life has been spent in a lifeless, airless, glass case, and someone's poked a few holes and allowed my lungs to blossom.

I want to know him, I want to see him the way he sees me, I want to let him breathe, too, and return the favor.

So I go through his things. Right, right, not the greatest way to go about it, but can you blame me? A poor girl like myself has never paid propriety any mind.

* * *

When Roxas opens the door to his apartment, he breaks at least three World Records for the sheer size of his tired eyes.

"Um." He mutters, at a loss for what else to say.

"It's been ages since I was in New Mexico." I clarify.

I guess I've never been one for articulate explanations.

"So, you, uh…" his eyes reduced to normal size, "Oh, I get it."

He looks me up and down, and a light, exasperated smile plays on his lips.

I'm sitting on his couch in an old, ripped, oil-stained shirt of his and my faded blue skirt, dripping wet. His amount of composure, I'm sure, could also be nominated for a World Record.

I tilt my head inquisitively.

"Me and my friends took a road trip to New Mexico a couple years ago, and there was a lot of off and on drizzle. The rain feels different there than it does here. It's a lot warmer. When it rained, we kept outside because it was almost like," he tilted his head to pantomimic me, "taking a shower with all your clothes on."

"What are you, a psychology major?"

He flopped down onto the couch next to me and laughed. He sat with his legs far apart and his arms draped across the back of the couch.

"Something like that. But what I don't get is why you're wearing the shirt."

"It smells like oil. I hid out in garages for most of my time in New Mexico."

"Ahh. That makes sense. So did you find anything you liked in the fridge?"

"Roxas. There is mustard and ketchup in your fridge and some powders in your cabinets. It's hard to pick a favorite. I will say I'm not a big fan of the red powder, though. It made me choke and I spent hours getting it out of the carpet."

"Cinnamon."

"What?"

"It's called cinnamon, you are not supposed to eat it by itself, it is a spice."

"I'm not an idiot." I huff.

"I know." He stands up suddenly, and his voice goes hard and serious, "Just be careful, okay?"

"Um, yeah…sure." I manage, a bit surprised by the intensity in his tone.

His shoulders dropped as he sighed.

"That's all I needed to hear." He says as he strides out of the living room.

"Wait—"

"What?" he calls.

"Don't go."

I swear I didn't mean to say it, it just came out.

It's okay if I act stupid most of the time, I'm That Poor Girl, that's always been a liable excuse. But I have a feeling Roxas isn't going to be sold on such spurious pretences.

"I'm not going anywhere. I was just going to order some takeout, if that's okay."

A temporary sunburn flared up my face.

I am the stupidest fugitive in the history of fugitives. It's a miracle I haven't been caught yet.

I think he mistakes my silence for something else besides embarrassment, because he quickly calls back,

"I could cook for us tomorrow, if you'd like, I mean, I would today, but you saw the fridge, maybe we could go grocery shopping, you know, if you're up to it, is takeout okay with you? I normally get Chinese, but if you want something else I know a really good pizza shop that delivers, it's called the Mellow Mushroom, you might've seen it when you—"

"Roxas."

"Yeah?"

"Chinese takeout sounds perfect."

We invest in a mix between small talk and banter — small banter if you will — before the Chinese arrives. He doesn't reveal any more about himself, rather parries any attempt I make at getting information by volleying the subject back to me. If anything, he got even more information about myself. Nothing too important, but a lot more than I have on him. I have never truly understood the meaning of disadvantage until that moment.

"I think I saw Moonrise Kingdom on HBO, you want a little entertainment to go with your dinner?"

To be honest I wanted to talk to him more, regardless of what information I got out of it. But I'm just about the biggest pushover in the world, so I just sort of nod.

"You know what HBO is, right?"

"Um."

"Do you know what movies are?"

"Yes, actually I —"

"They're like TV shows only they're concluded within the span of an hour or two."

"It's not like —"

"Wait, but you probably don't know what TV shows are, either. They're like —"

"I get the joke."

"Jokes are things that —"

"I'm pretty sure Bing can cure whatever you have."

He stared at me for a moment in shocked silence before laughing.

"What, no interrupting explanation about what commercials and search engines are?"

"Yes, they're like car engines only used for searching."

I raised my eyebrows at him.

"Okay, yeah, I'll admit, that was pretty weak. I'll just put on the movie."

Half way through what has to be the only movie I can honestly say I've watched more than twenty minutes of, I start to get suspicious.

Roxas is this perfect guy and we're having the perfect night and there just has to be a catch. In my experience, if something's good, it's most likely not true.

It's at the part where Sam coughs up beetle earrings that I take the remote from its lax position and pause the movie.

Me and Roxas have been providing excellent commentary for the movie, and from that he could glean I was really enjoying it, which probably justifies his shock and mild outrage when I do pause it.

"What gives?"

"What are we doing?"

"Well, we _were_ watching —"

"I mean, why are you letting me stay with you?"

"Can't this wait until after the movie?"

To his credit, it only took him a few moments to crack under my glare.

"Alright, fine. You remember my obnoxious friend from the soup kitchen?"

"Axel."

"The one and only. Well, he told me to keep you here for a week or two, just until Vanitas got back."

"So this is temporary." I whispered to no one in particular.

"Wait, who's Vanitas?"

He shrugged.

"No one you know, I suppose."

"Is he nice?"

"He's…Vanitas."

"I suddenly understand quantum physics."

"What?"

"Come on, man. These are the jokes." I smiled as I hit play.

So my short life here with Roxas had a life expectancy of six to thirteen more days. Well, that's probably more than I deserve. But still…

Is it selfish that I want more time? Am I unreasonable to want more than my fair share of his life?

I should be content with right now, that I even get any time, that I'm even a part of his life at all.

Is it wrong that I want to breathe a little more before I go back under a lifeless, airless mirror?

* * *

We go grocery shopping first thing in the morning, as he suggested, considering a cinnamon breakfast didn't sound too appetizing to either of us. It's weird, going inside of a grocery store as a customer, almost like dreaming in third person. I must've looked pretty dazed and overwhelmed when we walked inside, because he took me by the hand and led me to the dairy section.

"Skim milk, or 2%?"

"Skim milk."

"Reasoning?"

"Why waste your money on 2% of a gallon? 2% of a gallon, what is that, a cup? You're not getting your money's worth."

"Xion."

"Roxas."

"2% is a type of milk, there's still a full gallon in here." He rattled the 2% milk in his hand, making odd, squishy noises.

"I still think you should get the skim milk." I crossed my arms mid-shrug.

"Too late." He dropped the 2% in the cart, "It has sentimental value."

"Didn't anyone ever tell you that reverse psychology is cliché?"

"So you know what reverse psychology is, but you don't know what 2% is?"

"What can I say, I'm a girl of many surprises."

"So I've noticed. And I'm not getting the milk because you don't want it. I'm just going to relive this for a couple breakfasts."

"My embarrassment means that much to you? I'm touched."

He turned the cart in the other direction and began walking briskly.

"Hey, wait up!"

* * *

I discovered another hole in my knowledge when we arrived at the cereal aisle.

"What do these markings mean? Is it some sort of tracking system?"

"Tracking system? Let me see tha —" he turned around and fell silent, looking from the marked package and back to me. He's staring at me for the longest time before he cracks and lets out a small "Tch" that devolves into raucous laughter that has him grabbing his stomach helplessly.

"Hey! It's not funny!"

"You…ahahaha, oh my gosh, you thought, ahahahaha, that the barcode was a… a tracking device…"

"I didn't say tracking device, I meant something to keep track of the product, dumb-dumb!"

Dumb-dumb resurfaces from an almost forgotten, early childhood memory and I'm soon redder in the face than I ever want to be again.

"Dumb-dumb…ahahaha! What are you, seven?"

"What are you, seven?" I mock in the most sarcastic voice I can manage.

This doesn't help his laughter in the slightest.

From magazines and other media I rarely get the chance to enjoy, I know it's a popular activity to try and find a creative way for getting kicked out of stores.

Either Roxas is taking this opportunity to try, or he wants to get me laughing too, because in a moment, he's succeeded in the latter and I can't stop. It's not physically possible to tickle yourself, and it's been so long since I've been able to experience that sensation, that I'm almost surprised. He stops soon enough, and we both get a chance to breathe.

"What was…that all about?" I inquire in between breaths.

"You have a nice smile. It's a shame you don't show it off more often." He puts simply as he takes a few Cherrios boxes from the shelf and places them in the cart. When he exits the aisle, I have to race after him again due to being momentarily paralyzed by shock and omnipresent delight.

* * *

He doesn't let me sit in the cart at first, but I am nothing if not persistent and persuasive. The clerk has no qualms as I load up the conveyer belt with an assortment of food, merely a raised eyebrow and a dismissive shake of the head. When we're out in the parking lot he asks me quickly if I trust him. I don't say anything because often times when someone asks if they're trusted, they're about to do something to prove themselves untrustworthy. But Roxas doesn't do anything too radical, he merely picks up speed as we glide across the parking lot. The thin, metal skeleton rattles violently and the noise is a gravelly roar in my ears, and I feel oddly thrilled and at peace at the same time.

He whips up a terrific, if late, breakfast, and I get to indulge in not only a hearty meal, but also a hearty companion, and that's even harder to find than the meal itself.

Before we know it, three o'clock rolls around, and he's swept up in a rushed tornado, heralded by a slamming door and a faint goodbye called over his shoulder.

I decided to do a little snooping, because what else would be expected from an insatiately curious maiden such as myself in a scenario as perfect as this one? I find a photo album after a few hours of combing through insurance papers and lifetime warranties, which is probably the only information I've gathered about Roxas since he's taken me in.

The photos start around the beginning of high school, because no bachelor pad on this planet would have anything before that. He's a bit dorkier looking in the old pictures, if that's at all possible, and I giggle despite myself. A woman with long, dark hair and beautiful, dark eyes — probably his mom, by the looks of it — is seen hugging him in a few. As I turn the pages, my smile begins to disintegrate. The pictures include less and less of his young mom and more and more of a young blonde girl. I'm taken aback by how pretty she is. There's tons of her by herself, supposedly taken by Roxas, who is not a photographer in the least, considering how many times he manages to sneak his thumb into the shot. She's not that great of one either, gleaned from the many slender fingers that obscure the view of Roxas. There are a couple of them in the woods, in front of shops, at malls, even a couple taken from the inside of a carwash. As I keep flipping, some of Axel joins in to the mix, but the focal point is mostly the blonde girl.

I take a deep, shaky breath and put the photo album back in its place.

In his closet, there are a few paintings of vibrant sunsets and soft sunsets and cozy sunsets and extravagantly detailed sunsets and every sort of sunset I can imagine, besides a rainy one, but not a lot of people are privy to the details of it, so that's understandable.

Of course, they could be sunrises; after all, a sun halved by the horizon is all a matter of perspective.

For me, they would be sunsets. The initials NF are painted on the bottom in discordant, black ink.

By his bedside, there's a picture of him and Axel with their arms slung around the other's neck, grinning cheekily as Roxas holds a diploma triumphantly high.

I smile almost as cheekily, because suddenly I'm overwhelmed with nostalgia that isn't mine, as if I'm reliving the memory with Roxas. It's over in a rush and I lie eagle-spread on the bed, suddenly breathless.

That's enough snooping for now, I decide, heading back to the safety of the living room.

* * *

Roxas arrives late this night, and explains that he had some errands he had to take care of. I wonder absently if they have anything to do with the blonde girl.

He cooks us up some Italian entrée I can't pronounce the name of and we sit on the couch with our meal, watching another flick from HBO.

* * *

The next morning is definitely a change of pace. I don't remember falling asleep, but, then again, I don't remember the end of the movie either. My lungs feel suffocated, to the point where each breath is a strenuous chore. It doesn't take long or very keen reconnaissance skills to realize why that is. Roxas is sleeping soundly, and crushing me in the process. I try to get out from under him, but he outweighs me by at least eighty pounds, and everything I try is fruitless. Eventually I edge him a little ways out, and it takes almost half an hour of shoving to get him off of me. Unfortunately, the momentum of my final shove sends both of us tumbling off the couch and wakes up Roxas in the process. He lands on top of me, nearly squashing my ribcage and…my lips.

Our eyes both go wide.

* * *

It's a Saturday and he has no classes, making our situation at least five times more awkward. Without his phone alarm going off, we wake up at two o'clock and spend most of the time avoiding each other. He hides out in his room and I in the living room. I feel bad, like this whole thing is my fault. I had it so good. It was only a matter of time until I messed it up, I suppose.

It's been a couple of hours and neither of us have had breakfast so I go into the kitchen and try to assemble what I can in a slim, Tupperware container and slide it underneath his door.

How do I feel about this kiss?

It was perfection.

And it was a curse.

I really enjoyed it, but I'd trade a kiss from him for time with him any day. We can have a just-friends deal, I don't mind. Though it would be nice to have something romantic, I think I just want to be with him, I want him to talk to me. Because the conversations I have with Roxas are the only conversations I've ever had where I get to talk too.

But I snuffed out that hope with my careless mistakes just like I do every time.

* * *

By the time I get out of my own musings, there's a pile of piping hot waffles soaking in syrup and drizzled with other assorted powders on the coffee table. I pick up a sterling fork and polish it off, smiling to myself the smallest bit, because of the smallest bit of hope they represented. Maybe I could still salvage this. We could still be friends.

I tiptoed to the kitchen carefully, but to my dismay, he had already retreated to the safety of his own room. And, boy, had he left a mess.

I got to work cleaning the flour from the counter and floors, still in shock at the kitchen's current state. He had even left whole puddles of syrup in his wake.

But still, I was undeterred in my conviction to clean it. It was the least I could do.

* * *

Our day went on similarly to our morning. I would tidy up around the apartment and slip him some food underneath the door. A while later, there would be a gourmet dish on the coffee table and no sign of the blonde. In the kitchen, there was a mess waiting to be cleaned.

But for the last meal, he dropped off a sautéed tilapia on the patio's table. I opened up the sliding, glass door and nearly screamed when I saw Roxas there.

This was too soon. When I looked at him and that charming smile I thought of the blonde girl and what a cute couple they made and how even though I told myself I supported them, inside there was the smallest pang of longing that assured me I would never be truly satisfied being just friends.

Disgruntled by this epiphany, I turned to go.

I shouldn't have been surprised as I was when his fingers wrapped around my wrist and he pulled me back outside onto the patio.

"Please." He whispered, now holding both of my wrists in his hands, "I'm sorry. Let me make it up to you."

"_You're_ sorry?" I asked incredulously, "I should be the one apologizing."

"For what?" he tilted his head, an amused smile playing on his lips.

"Well, I, uh — I mean, Je suis —"

He laughed a rich, hearty laugh and shook his head.

"Then why did you avoid me this whole day?"

"I wasn't trying to…I was on the phone."

"With…?"

He grew red in the face.

I sighed. He had been talking to the blonde girl this entire time. He hadn't meant to forget about me, but I guess I slipped through the cracks. I wasn't much of anything to him compared to her. They really were such a cute couple. Why would he waste his time with me when he had her? What was I thinking? That the limited time I had here would change his mind? I really am an idiot.

I bit my lower lip.

"Hey, hey, I'm sorry, okay? I'm not the best at talking to people. Just. Sit down?"

He pulled out a chair. I sat.

"It's fish with lemon juice and some extra seasoning. None of which is cinnamon, I can assure you."

I ate quietly, not sure of what to say. I wasn't the best at talking to people either.

"Um, here." I set the Tupperware on the table, "It's meat with cheese and some extra bread, often called a sandwich, I can assure you."

He grinned.

"Sure."

We ate quietly for a time before I spoke up.

"So, what's her name?"

"What do you mean?"

How in the world was I going to explain who without letting him know I had went through his photos? What kind of a guest was I? What kind of a person was I?

I should've just let the night stay in awkward silence.

"Um, the girl you were talking to this whole time? What's her name?"

"Naminé."

I set my fork down.

"Oh."

"Yeah, she gets upset if I don't call her every once in a while. I also had to talk to Axel about some things. It ran a little too long. I guess friends will do that to you."

"I see. So, you and Naminé…?"

He nearly spit out his drink as he laughed.

I waited patiently for him to stop banging the table in hysterics.

"You…thought…me and her…we…oh my gosh, Je suis, no. No, no, no."

"And why not?"

"She's taken, trust me."

"By who?"

"I…I have a twin. His name's Ventus. When my parents divorced, my mom kept me and my dad took him. Naminé was a childhood friend of his and he liked her a lot. She moved to Savannah and I got to know her. She told me about her long distance relationship with him after a couple months. We became penpals with Ventus and sometimes he would come to visit. Naminé would always ask to borrow my camera when he was in town and she always brought it back full with pictures of the two of them. They both go to Cornell now, so I don't get to see much of either of them. But we talk all the time. Phoning her tends to take a while since they like to pass the phone back and forth. They never were a big fan of speaker phone."

"And you talked to Axel, too? That's understandable. He seems like the kind of guy that could talk your ear off."

"Oh, yeah, he is. But believe it or not, there are times when it's impossible to get him to talk."

"Oh?"

"He's an enigmatic man when he wants to be."

* * *

_AN:_

_This was so much better in my head.  
_

_Ughhh.  
_

_I'm not that great at dialogue, but if you couldn't tell "Je suis" which means "I am" in French became an inside joke of sorts, I guess. Yeah, yeah, flame if you want.  
_


End file.
